Years ago, I would look at myself in the mirror and feel completely… exhausted.

Because when I looked at myself, I saw my mother’s eyes staring back at me telling me that I would never, ever be good enough.

Since becoming a mother, I’ve realized we all have hopes for our children.  Some of us simply hope that our children will become good people that make this world a littler nicer, maybe a bit more tolerable.

Others hope for much more.  They hope for fancy careers, big salaries, great achievements and valor beyond compare.  Somewhere along the way, I think some parents’ hopes evolve into expectations.  And those expectations, to quote my least favorite author of all time, can be “great.”

So for many painful years, I saw myself as an unmet expectation, as the embodiment of false hopes. In my heart, I believed that my mother wished that I would have been more like her.

Like her, the woman who was a neurosurgeon before 30.

Like her, the woman who moved to a brand new country with a husband she barely knew and managed to create a life.

Like her, the woman who became a successful businesswoman in a field that, in her time, was largely dominated by good ol’ boys.

Like her, the woman who raised two children in a culture with which she was completely unfamiliar.

Like her, who is tough and smart and hardly ever cries.

I was not, am not, and never will be… like her.

As children, we absorb expectations and we translate them into a perimeter which represents our parents’ approval.  Some people dash by that perimeter without a single regret.  I, on the other hand, have spent the majority of my existence trying to stand squarely in the middle of that space.

Just before I was blessed with a daughter of my own, I stopped and really listened to my mother’s voice echoing inside my head.  I realized that what she was saying was not exactly what I was hearing.

When I thought I heard, “You aren’t good enough.”

She was actually saying, “You can be better.”

Yes, there is a difference. And I know, now, that she was right.

I realized that she loves me.  She loves me and she’s not wrong in her hopes for me, just as I’m not wrong in the hopes I have for myself.  Hope is not a condition to be set upon love.  It is just… hope.  I also realized, that more than often, I overemphasized the times when she told me to do better, and I swept all the times she told me was proud of me under the rug of convenient dismissals.

Much of my problems with my mother resided in the fact that I didn’t view her as a real person.  She was Ammi (mom), all powerful, superhuman, above everything.  When I saw the human being, the woman with all the flaws, the guilt, the regrets, the loneliness, the sadness…

I stopped worshiping her and started loving her.

Despite those revelations, every now and then, I’ll revert.  I question myself and I wonder if, maybe, I didn’t just cop out of achieving anything of meaningful significance.  Of course, I don’t think I’m insignificant.  But, I do wonder if I’m significant enough.

Everyone has their struggles, and that has been my greatest.

A few weeks ago, I was helping her clean out her garage and she put her hand on my shoulder.  She looked into my eyes and said, “You are the reason I asked God for a daughter.  I could not have been blessed more by you in my life.  You know this, don’t you?”

“Shhhyeah, mom, I know.  But, thanks.” I said that as casually as is humanly possible.  I think I may have even rolled my eyes.  Funny, no matter how much of an adult I become, she can magically transform me into a fourteen year old.

We grow up, we tell ourselves that it doesn’t matter.  Our parents will not define our motives as adults.  They will not dictate who we are as adults.  We’ll live our lives and be happy with our choices.  We think that their approval, although nice, is unnecessary.

But, that day, I went home and cried quiet tears of relief when I replayed her words in my head.  I was, after all, what she had expected.

It mattered, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.  I may not care much for what other people think of me, but, for better or worse, I will always care about what she thinks of me.

Now, I think of my daughter and I promise myself that I’ll always hope the best for her.  As I see it, that’s an important part of my job as her mom.  Hoping for my child, seeing her potential, and helping her realize it.  I will not underestimate her, nor let her underestimate herself.

This has been my mother’s gift to me.

That doesn’t mean I won’t do things differently, though.  I’ll try to be a little more human, a little messier, and a little less “perfect” than my mom tried to be when I was growing up.  I’ll make sure I wear my imperfections proudly when I see even the faintest hint of worship in my child’s eyes.

I will also be absolutely certain not to wait too long to tell my daughter that she’s already better than anything I could have expected.